A DAD'S LIFE:The only thing more stubborn than the eldest is her cough, writes ADAM BROPHY
I’M NOT in the good books to begin with when the mid-term starts, having blown off Halloween to head to Dublin for two days. As a result, there’s little sympathy when I limp through the door a day later. The house is still all cobwebs, pumpkins and candy, but I missed the main event, so the reception is frostier than you would imagine at this time of year.
They’ve had their few days of dress-up and what seems like intravenously delivered chocolate, but they’re coming down, which probably accounts more for the grouchy mood than my absence. The elder has also succumbed to a heavy cold, which is compounding the delirium from sugar withdrawal.
You never want them sick during the holidays – they’re unmanageable. The sense of injustice overwhelms them and you bear the brunt of it. She is refusing to accept she is sick because she has negotiated two days of pony camp during the week. In fairness to her, she’s coughing up for one of the days herself from savings – that is, what she’s guilted from granny in recent visits. And because she is paying she believes she has total control and veto on her movements. The thing is she’s coughing up a lot more than cash at the moment.
Normally the illness would be highlighted as much as humanly possible. Every little grunt and chest tickle brought to our attention, just so we’re fully aware that to send her to school would be tantamount to child abuse. We are constantly encouraged to feel her forehead lest we forget for a moment that she has a temperature. A particular favourite is for her to nest on the couch in front of the fire. Then she can mope around the house with her blanket in tow, making requests for honey drinks and casting her eyes downwards as she bravely struggles through whatever savage tropical ailment has laid her low. We are encouraged to input her symptoms to the internet to ensure she hasn’t contracted malaria on her extensive travels. In fairness, the effort she puts into these performances warrants a day off.
Now we have the opposite. She’s sitting there watching the telly attempting to suppress the constant coughing bouts. She’s eating her dinner, which is a rarity in itself, and almost physically wiping the grimace off her face. At night she splutters herself to sleep without the smallest of whines. We can gauge when she wakes by the chest cranking up again.
She appears by my bedside early in the morning. Cough, splutter, sniff. “Dad, I’m feeling fine. I’m totally okay to go to pony camp.”
I pull the curtains and peek into the murk. The clouds are hovering about chimney height, the trees angled at 45 degrees in the gale and the rain drums at the window with an angry five-fingered beat. I wouldn’t go out there for the love of a good woman.
I’m dubious, but know what I’m dealing with. I attempt to explain from all sorts of angles: that she’s sick and needs to rest up; that she’ll freeze; that she’ll be in far better nick tomorrow if she sits tight today. Every utterance is greeted with brows furrowed deep enough to grow spuds in, but even as she gathers her breath to dispute she is hit by another bout and instead storms out in disgust.
Back she comes about 10 minutes later. I’m not sure but I think she may have slipped downstairs for a healthy slurp of Benylin to temporarily smooth her vocal/argument cords. She is wrapped from head to toe in riding hat, scarf, T-shirt, hoodie, rain jacket, body protector, jodhpurs, waterproof pants, boots and gloves. She glares out and challenges me to find an entry point for water.
“It’s not just the rain,” I plead, “you’ve got to look after yourself. If you go out in that you’re gonna feel a whole lot worse tonight.”
“I’m fine,” she says, stony-faced.
So I let her go. Now I’m sitting here, hugging a heater, hoping the drains hold under duress and listening to flood warnings on the radio. Part of me thinks I have to toughen up and bash my eldest brat into submission more often. Sometimes she just has to listen. Sometimes she has to do what she’s told.
But the other part of me thinks, hell, what’s the worst that can happen? She could come in in a jocker this evening, that’s true, but she’ll get over it. I like that she refused to take no for an answer. I like that she argued her case and then attempted to find a physical solution. I like that she’s a mule.